


lovers like that

by swatkat



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, POV Second Person, SQ week prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:01:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swatkat/pseuds/swatkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You who once bartered in hearts should have known better than to be taken in by the charms of a common thief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lovers like that

There isn't a night Henry doesn't ask after his other mother. His  _real_ mother, as he once would have called her—but those (dark, interminable) days are long gone and you should be,  _are_ , content. 

In a manner of speaking.

 

 

There isn't a night Henry doesn't ask after his other mother. It's winter in Maine by the time Emma Swan has breezed back in town with just a duffel bag and dark circles underneath her eyes, and you have run out of stories.

That night you're quiet for a long time, running a gentle hand through your son's unruly mop as you listen to the sound of his breathing. A boisterous wind picks up outside, rattling menacingly on your window panes as the room grows chill. You make a mental note to get the heating checked, tuck Henry in with renewed purpose.

And then you tell your son the truth.

 

 

Your flowers have long withered, now buried underneath a thick blanket of snow. The days grow colder and Storybrooke welcomes its wayward princess with enough warmth to survive an impending ice age (water under the bridge, no questions asked,  _we're just glad she's back home with us, Regina_ ). You cannot help but seethe.

Being an accidental savior will get you everywhere, it seems.

You're not bitter, no. And if there's yet another welcome home party to which you are invited out of Snow White's never-ending (sickening) desire to  _rehabilitate_  the woman formerly known as the Evil Queen in the eyes of Storybrooke's upstanding citizens, well.

 

 

In moments of unacceptable weakness, you imagine asking Emma if you toowere a part of the long con. But that would imply a conversation, and confirmation that perhaps, maybe,  _possibly_ —

In moments of unacceptable weakness you imagine (you relive,  _oh_ ) stolen kisses and lingering glances. The Savior's callous hand reaching for your heart—unasked for—in its cage and unleashing it upon the world without a thought.

You who once bartered in hearts should have known better than to be taken in by the charms of a common thief.

 

*

  

You have no desire to welcome  _that woman_  home. This isn't her home. She made that clear.

And perhaps you had thought about it—a  _home_. With Henry. With  _her_. A mundane, suburban home unbefitting the Queen you once were, with laughter and movie marathons and watching your son become a man while you grow harmless and old and happy.

Perhaps you had thought about being happy. 

You bundle Henry up in layers and a scarf, your determination to stay away flying in the face of his insistence. He's reluctant, these days, to let you out of his sight for too long, clingy in a way he hasn't been since he was five. It would've been cause for celebration in another lifetime, but now you just wish to get hold of Emma Swan and kiss her,  _no_ , shake her until she  _understands_.

 

 

You show up at the diner on time, lasagna bowl in hand and smile firmly in place. 'WELCOME HOME EMMA' say the gaudy decorations they've put up in honor of their Savior, and it's far, far too cheerful for your taste. There's unease in the room, you can sense it—unease they're all determined to shove aside in favor of their neonbright smiles and useless optimism. They're all fools, you think viciously, idiots playing with fire that's bound to burn them all.

Snow embraces you like you're  _friends_  and you say nothing, nothing, clenching your jaw until it begins to hurt. 

Bad form, your mother would say. Conduct most unbecoming the woman who would become a queen.

Emma is late, and her red jacket is still an eyesore and her smile still hopelessly disarming and you have to excuse yourself just so you can breathe again. 

An escape through the rear entrance is far beneath you, but this is what Emma Swan has reduced you to.

 

 

You send a firm text to Snow reminding her of Henry's bedtime. You and Snow White will never be friends, but there's an… understanding now. Henry is more important than anyone and anything, more important than stolen hearts and that lingering sense of less you never, ever speak of. 

An  _understanding_  with you mortal enemy. This is what Emma Swan has reduced you to.

 

 

"Love  _is_  freedom, Regina," Snow once said in a moment of misplaced drunken camaraderie. "I, I have to believe in that." 

"I didn't say anything about love, you idiot," you hissed, your eyes scanning the crowded room for her dolt of a husband. Red. Anyone, really, to get Snow White off your hands. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Didn't you?" Snow persisted, her eyes full of far too much sympathy than you have ever cared for.

 

* 

 

"You left without me," Henry tells you later that night.

For a moment you think of nothing but angry accusations and  _You're not my real mother, you're the Evil Queen!_ , your precious happy ending shattering to pieces with every breath. You look at Henry then, and all you see is hurt, and fear— 

Your son should have never known abandonment.

You go to him, then, and cradle him close, apologizing again and again for your hasty, thoughtless exit. You didn't mean to let him think you had walked out of his life, too. 

"I asked Emma why she came back," Henry says, resting his chin on your shoulder. His hair is getting too long again, and you brace yourself for the tantrum that will follow when you send him to get it cut. You run your fingers through its length and he cuddles closer. It's… comforting. It's  _everything_. You breath in his scent and he says, "She said she ran out of places to go to. Why'd you think she said that?"

You do not say she ran out of funds and people to fool. You will shield him from  _that_  truth as long as you are able. Your heart aches with the knowledge that it won't be very long before he finds out. 

And besides, there are always more people to be fooled. You are testimony to this.

  

*

  

 _Knock, knock, knock_  at your front door, and surely,  _surely_  Emma wouldn't—

But of course.

Emma  _would_. 

 

 

Emma sways a little on your doorstep, her cheeks flushed pink in the cold night air. Her knit woolen cap clashes horribly with her too-thin jacket, and she appears to have foregone her gloves yet again. She's a sight for sore eyes and you drink her in, even though you've consumed far more alcohol than you ever would on an average work night. 

You thought she'd left for good. You didn't think you'd ever see her again. You  _couldn't_.

"Hey," Emma says, jamming her hands down her back-pockets in that awkward way of hers. You didn't think you'd ever see her again. You weren't prepared. All the cider in the world couldn't prepare you for the  _hurt_  that wells up at the sight of Emma Swan at your door, smiling a crooked smile to thaw even the coldest heart. "You left."

Her face falls as you can't quite mask your wince, and she says, "The diner, I mean. I thought we'd get to, you know—"

"Are you inebriated, Miss Swan?" you say, pushing down other, bitter accusations that claw up your throat. "Need I remind you that my son is asleep upstairs?" 

"No, I— I just wanted to talk to you, Regina," she pleads, and the gall, the  _audacity_ , it should infuriate you enough to hurl her across the yard with a blast of your magic, but all you manage to feel is weary.

You wish she'd never come back. You're afraid you might clutch her close and never, ever let her leave your sight again. You settle for a resigned, "There's nothing to discuss, Miss Swan."

"Regina, please," she says, and oh the nerve of her, stepping close and closer still, enough to feel her soft breath on your face. "I have to explain."

"You don't owe me an explanation," you insist, even as your fool heart threatens to beat outside of your chest.

"Please," she says. There's a crack in her voice that makes you want to cradle her close and promise her all the happy nonsense you no longer believe in. "You guys, this town--" She waves her hand.  "You gave me everything. You elected me the Sheriff, Regina,  _me_!"

"That was hardly an election," you scoff, even as she continues, "Do you realize how fricking crazy that is? Me, the Sheriff! That's, like, handing the keys of the candy store to a kid." And her eyes, her eyes wear the color of your heart, drawing you in, asking you to be  _kind_. Asking for grace and other impossible things. 

"You're hardly a child, Emma," you tell her. "My son on the other hand  _is_  a child, and thanks to  _your_  callous abandonment, he spent a week crying himself to sleep." 

It's a low blow, bringing up your son ( _yours_ ). It's nothing less than what she deserves. 

You spent a week not sleeping at all, but that isn't something you will ever share with her. Your weakness is yours alone to bear.   

"I'm not used to people trusting me," Emma says, her voice small. She scuffs her toe and shivers slightly. "It was too much. I, I couldn't—"

"It’s a good thing then, Miss Swan," you say, "because I don't trust you at all."

 

 

You watch her walk away from you, a blur of red and gold amidst the white and the shade. You shut the door behind you softly. It wouldn't do to have Henry up at this hour, asking too many questions you don't have answers to. You shiver. 

You think you might never be warm again.

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> There was a SQ week prompt with evil!Emma. This is the evilest I can imagine Emma Swan (that is to say, not very evil at all).
> 
> "We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be alright."


End file.
